Archangels Don't Play Pinball

"The night is like a giant umbrella full of holes.
Someone's shot it full of drops of lime.
Like a giant pinball game constructed for King-Kong,
The moon is like a flashing 'Replay' sign.
And my city's like a giant pinball too.
The girls are flipper buttons there to press.
Easy does it, or they'll go into a tilt.
Steady there 'cos this game needs finesse."

I have found a musical saviour in Zappa,
I have found satire in Dario Fo,
I have yet to find victuals for my poor stomach.
Untimely hunger born at 3am, dead at four, and resurrected at five. These odd hours of the morn I dwell, for I am working now as we speak; all the while omar rodriguez-lopez jams away to a salsa beat in the background, drowned in muffled alien sounds.

I envisioned the avanguardista, I envisioned Mussolini and I sought finely cut linen clothing.
I need to revist some Frederico Fellini pictures, over my week-long break.

Tonight I was somewhat intrigued enough to view some Pink Floyd jams from swinging London in 66, a generation obssessed with sex and musical experimentation. I was impressed and I will probably do as our contemporaries do when confronted by something precious, download it in a rage and forget about it in an ironically named folder. (reference to older post: the infamous "hot off the frying pan") Eitherway, I have so much Zappa to go through that I should probably refrain from any further indulgent downloading before I have fully absorbed the new avalanche of music hot on my ears.

Previous to this I was going to watch the "Cabinet of Dr. Caligari", a picture from the year 1920! ... I decided against it though, for some reason silent movies do not appeal to me as much?! Apparently there is an american remake of the german original, released in 2005. Elitism equips me with self-righteous, indignant, pessimism against such remakes.

Let me finish this post off, as 'Good Girl/Carrots' - Panda Bear, plays softly in the background, with another excerpt from Dario: (this one's a keeper!)

FIRST SWEEPER: Alright... But what's this yoga got to do with being a roadsweeper?

SECOND SWEEPER: It's got a lot to do with it... Basically, it's the same principle. What can be more suitable than a roadsweeper's life, in order to suppress within us that baggage of arrogance, pride and ambition which prevents us from stripping ourselves of pointless vanities, and going forward, naked but happy, to attain the bliss and ecstasy of the platonic world of ideas?

turquoise boy puts on the blues

"lay down your lucky hand, upon her heart
morning becomes a kite, tangled up in stars
laugh in the midday light, and leave - it behind
move out into his sundry eyes, and sing, unwind"


somnolent and sober, I approach this palette
fired up on monster and wired on after eight splendor
out of this town and into an idyllic sunset I throw myself
there's something too familiar, that I seek to avoid. Maybe that can explain my ever increasing penchant for finding shelter in extensive jams. Experimentation and songs that clock in past the twelve minute mark, somehow bring me a taste of salvation. Whether its Dungen, Panda Bear or the Mars Volta... I aspire to repeat and encapsulate the "goliath", the "perfect trip", fixate on the intangible freedom that the escape from formulaic songs can bring.

I need to fix my boots... this goes beyond a simple removal of the crusts of chlorine that are left when the snow melts away. The sole/soul needs the gentle hands of a shoemaker, who works under the strict condition that his shop is dimly lit and smells of fine Italian leather, littered with empty boxes and scrap pieces, maybe a small am/fm radio in the corner playing distant jamaican dub tunes.